Oh! The glamour of travel! A nasty five-day flu had kept me in bed and put us
behind schedule, so we opted to take the bus the four-hundredish kilometers from
Savannakhet to Hue. Following the advice of Madame Phouthavy, we arrived at the dusty
station at eleven p.m. an hour ahead of departure time in order to get a
decent seat. But when someone indicated the bus we were to take, we peered in and
discovered there would be no good seats. Our home for the next fourteen hours was a clunky
old communist-made thing, with five seats across and no legroom at all. Our fellow
passengers were overwhelmingly male, and they all seemed to know each other for some
reason. We suspected they all worked on some construction project together (indeed, many
wore hardhats the whole length of the ride), but this was never confirmed.

Just getting out of the bus station was a bone-rattling experience, a harbinger of
things to come. We did our best to wedge ourselves into sleepable positions, but I ended
up spending most of the trip looking out the window at the moon-drenched landscape. The
first thirty kilometers (which we had ridden upon ten days earlier) were relatively
smooth, but beyond the scungy town of Xeno the road turned into something unsuitable for
oxen. As the bus screamed and jolted and lurched into the night, I began to wish I had
brought a hardhat too. Every two or three hours the bus would come to an abrupt stop, the
lights would come on, and everyone would clamber over those sleeping in the aisles to exit
the bus for a pee. My first lesson in Vietnamese culture was that the people here (at
least the men) pee with utter impunity, letting loose anywhere they please. The few women
passengers, on the other hand, meekly made their way through the multiple streams to more
discreet quarters.

When the sun finally rose we saw that we were once again in an area that was grindingly
poor, poorer than anything wed seen elsewhere in Laos. The huts were shabbier; the
kids were dirtier, and everyone seemed to be engaged in extremely heavy labor at dawn.
Women pounded grain, men plowed fields with yokes over their shoulders, and filthy little
kids ran around naked or stared at us listlessly as we bounced by.

Not too long after sunrise we were at the Vietnamese border of Lao Bao, where we spent
three pointless hours heeding the border guards every whim. To kill the time, we
changed Lao kip for Vietnamese dong with a fresh-faced Dutch couple crossing into Laos.
With typical Dutch cheerfulness (highly irritating at six a.m.), they told us that the
road to the coast was good. I feebly tried to convince Fred that we get on our bikes and
ride, but he reminded me that I was still in a weakened condition and ought to take it
easy.

As it turns out, we made the right choice. The Dutch couple must have been
hallucinating, or trying to play a cruel joke on us, because the road from Lao Bao to the
coast was nothing short of nightmarish, a construction project on a massive scale, and
perhaps the biggest source of dust and grime I have ever witnessed. Discomfort
notwithstanding, I found the view out the window to be fascinating. The instant we crossed
the border (finally) it became apparent that we were in a new and wonderful country,
unlike anything Ive ever seen before. In marked contrast to Laos, there were people
everywhere, all engaged in some sort of activity. Flocks of cone-hatted women carried
ridiculously cumbersome loads on their bicycles; policemen talked animatedly with village
folk; houses and other structures were going up everywhere. And the houses looked way
different from the ones in Laos, made of concrete, adorned with geometrical gee-gaws and
painted in a multitude of bright colors. Public buildings and flags were everywhere,
especially in the town of Khe Sahn, about twenty kilometers past the border. Khe Sahn (so
it says in our guidebook) was the site of the worst battle in the American War, and today
the inhabitants were celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of their liberation. Music was
blaring out of loudspeakers; banners were flapping; and locals were milling about and
stuffing their faces with a variety of snacks.

We passed through a rugged landscape of scrubby-looking, denuded hills (defoliated by
napalm or Agent Orange?) and over innumerable partially finished bridges as the
temperature continued to rise.

By the time we reached the coastal highway at Dong Ha the capital of Quang Tri
province since American forces obliterated the actual town of Quang Tri sweat was
pouring off our bodies. I had imagined the infamous Highway 1 to be a nightmare of
hurtling steel. But in reality it more resembled a meandering country lane than the main
thoroughfare of a country of sixty million souls. As we bumped slowly along through an
eerie landscape of bomb craters and graveyards, I tried to imagine what kinds of battles
were fought here.

A lunch stop was imposed upon us after a half hour or so on Highway 1, which was a
little frustrating with only a few kilometers to go to Hue. It was our first stop since
the border, which we had left five hours before. I wandered into the pig- and
chicken-filled yard out back in search of a toilet and found the other passengers of the
bus peeing everywhere with reckless abandon, mysteriously avoiding the numerous toilets
and pissoirs provided. Our first meal in Vietnam was extra nasty, two bowls of
flavorless oily broth with rubbery chicken and undercooked noodles. We hoped it
wasnt an indicator of meals to come

Another fifteen minutes of bus hell ensued, and then the drivers assistant was
telling us to get off the bus. "Here Hue city," he kept saying, even though we
appeared to be neither in a bus station nor any kind of urban area. We protested for a
moment before loading up our bikes. When I took mine I noticed two much-valued items
missing: my mileage counter and the small Buddha that Fred had epoxied to my handlebars.
Travelers we had met had warned us that Vietnam was full of thieves and this was rather
sobering after only a few hours in the country, putting us on our guard.

Pedaling alongside the Perfume River into Hue felt surreal. Bicycles were everywhere,
and many of the cyclists pedaled alongside us and engaged in simple conversations. The
Vietnamese, we learned quickly, are not a shy people. We penetrated the massive walls that
delineate the Citadel Hues historic center through an ancient gate and
my feeling like Dorothy arriving in Oz intensified. Absorbed into a sea of bicycles, we
crossed lotus-filled moats directly in front of the "Purple Forbidden City," the
imposing palace of the Nguyen emperors. The town had the look of a huge park, full of
trees, birds and flowers. We found a little hotel down a quiet street, had a quick and
highly necessary shower and set out to explore the town.

Hue at least the intra muros part of it-- is perhaps the most attractive
Asian town Ive ever seen, leafy and relaxed, almost rural in aspect. People raise
animals and vegetables in the many moats and lakes, lounge in the countless courtyard
cafes, and play soccer alongside the massive walls. The serenity of the place and the slow
yet purposeful pace of its inhabitants made us feel like wed entered another time,
another dimension.

A late afternoon nap almost killed me. Dragging my sorry ass out of bed for dinner
required a monumental effort one that wasnt warranted it turns out. Just
outside one of the old city gates, in the newer and more bustling part of town, we stopped
at the first place that caught our eye, a restaurant that catered to the backpacker set.
While the food was almost edible, the overall cleanliness of the place was appalling. Will
every meal be like this, I wondered? The best part of the meal was the cyclo ride
back to the hotel. I hadnt been ridden in a cycle-powered taxi since Java, and it
felt great having someone else doing the pedaling for a change.

The following two days in and around Hue were blissful. I, for one, had lost my heart
to Vietnam and I think Fred quickly began to share my sentiments. Our first two meals in
the country notwithstanding, we had no more problems finding decent food, and our
haphazard explorations of the countryside were delicious.

Our first day took us across the river in search of the Imperial tombs, Hues
biggest tourist draw. We, however, were only half-hearted tourists, more interested in
absorbing the flavor of this new country. We spent the day getting lost in the sticks,
playing billiards, drinking numerous cold drinks and chatting with the friendly folk who
sold them to us. We did manage to visit one tomb that of emperor Minh Mangand
it failed to impress either of us, so we skipped the rest, preferring to pedal aimlessly
through the forests, villages and religious centers that surround Hue.

Perhaps the most endearing aspect of the whole experience was that nearly everyone was
getting around on bicycle. Xe dap is the first word we learned in Vietnamese.
Meaning bicycle, it is painted on the many businesses and dwellings that double as bicycle
repair shops, and we frequently hear it uttered in astonishment as we pedal by.

In the golden light of the afternoon we explored the citadel some more, discovering it
to be surprisingly vast. We found a funky place to eat in a lopsided wooden pavilion built
over a pond and gorged ourselves on spring rolls and other delicacies while watching a
thunderstorm pass over. Later, we checked out the nightlife at a bar called Apocalypse
Now, where we chat with members of a tour group from Australia and the Yale
Whiffenpoofs. We had housed some of their predecessors when we lived in Paris, and now
they were on their first-ever tour of Vietnam.

Returning across the river to our hotel by cyclo in the silent sultry air I felt
overcome with happiness. I couldnt think of anywhere Id rather be than in this
magical land.

The following day we got onto our bikes again, staying on the left bank of the Perfume
River this time. First stop was the Thien Mu pagoda, a beautiful spot and a working
monastery. Somehow the many monks that live there manage to retain an aura of calm while
being snapshotted by hoards of sweaty pink tourists. Further upriver we stumbled upon the
less impressive Temple of Literature, where we caught a few moments of solitude a
very rare thing in people-filled Vietnam.

The heat drove us inside for the hot part of the day, which was followed by our
now-customary pedal around town. Today we headed along a canal full of thousands of
houseboats perhaps not Hues best neighborhood, but indisputably picturesque.
Later we found a popular café and hung out there for a while, drinking iced coffee and
sweating under the curious gaze of dozens of other patrons. With time to kill before
dinner, we found another more peaceful café by the riverside and played many rounds of
backgammon as we watched another thunderstorm approach in the fading light. Dinner also
had a commanding view of the river, from the top floor of the fanciest hotel in town.
While the food wasnt bad, the service was execrable. Our waiter totally disappeared
for at least an hour, and when he still didnt show up after we asked his colleagues
to hunt him down, we did something very brazen: we dined and ditched. Never before have I
left a restaurant without paying the bill, and we both felt a little guilty as we mounted
our bikes and headed back to our place. With a possible APB out for our arrest, maybe it
was a good thing that we were leaving Hue the following morning

Imperial Hue

Village butcher shop

Pedaling along the Perfumed River

Monk-e-teria

Oops!

Looking back from atop Hai Van Pass

Helpin' the banana man

10 July, Hue to Danang, 108 Km, (f)

Dawn
seemed to come early in this part of Asia. Id been awake for some time before the
alarm went off and watched the sky turn from black to gray through our window as the clock
approached 5 a.m. Sounds from the busy streets of our neighborhood percolated up into the
hotel room and past the white noise of the air conditioner. Motorcycles whirred, chickens
crowed and kids practiced soccer on the street.

When the silver clock started to beep we roused ourselves and had a spartan breakfast
of Cliff Bars and yogurt. When we began loading the bikes that had been resting in the
hotel dining room we woke a few of the staff whod been sleeping on the floor there,
no doubt exhausted after an evening (or should I say morning) of World Cup Soccer. We
crept out the door and joined the throngs of two-wheeled vehicles starting their day in
Hue. It was refreshing to be again in a country where the people rose early and took
advantage of the relatively cool temperatures. Even more revitalizing was to be somewhere
where a bicycle is transportation and not sport.

Though Hue is a pretty big town by any standard (around 600k inhabitants) we were in
the country after just a few moments of pedaling. I was worried about riding in Vietnam;
everyone had warned us that the traffic was abysmal, the people were rude and cloying and
that it would be too hot to enjoy our ride. Surely there was a fair amount of traffic, but
the bulk of it was on two wheels and the majority of that was using the same power source
that we were. I admit that the motorized traffic that we had to contend with was annoying
but it was far from the most dangerous we had encountered. And, lastly, the heat was
bearable. At least at 5:45 when we set out.

On our way out of town we did have to interact with more bicycles than I am used to.
Which is, for the most part, pretty easy. Most of the cyclists fear breaking a sweat so
they saunter along at a less then breakneck pace. The girls and women who were cycling
sport a rather elaborate riding costume. They all have wide brimmed hats that are often
adorned with synthetic flowers and full length gloves. Most also cover their faces with a
medical mask-like thing that might look more at home on a bandit. Why? To avoid getting
tan of course.

We wove our way in and around the throngs around us. Intersections become just a little
more hectic. Almost all of them are completely uncontrolled, so the chaos that ensues at
any of them is overwhelming at first. Imagine nearly continuous lines of four bicycles and
two scooters converging at right angles, some shifting directions while others hold their
path and you have some picture of traffic in Hue --and Id suspect most towns and
villages in Vietnam. I wondered if wed find intersections littered with bent
bicycles and motorcycles and broken people wailing and shouting. To my surprise there is
some harmony in what really occurs.

Though there is a chorus of motorcycle horns (and the occasional vehicle with more than
two wheels) there is a zen-like peacefulness about how easily the slow moving vehicles
pass, most often without incident. Usually everyone makes it through with care and respect
for those around him or her and everyone pays attention. It isnt unknown for a
youngster, almost always male, to thrust through at great speed and clip someone, or for
someone to space out and hit someone else with a disconcerting clatter of bicycle fenders.
I only witnessed one such problem between a cyclist and a motorcycle. It occurred at low
speed, there were no injuries and the two shuffled off to the side and settled the matter
very peaceably --though the bicyclist seemed a little irritated.

We passed just a few intersections before urban Hue gave way to agricultural territory.
We headed south on Colonial Route One. Built by the French with barely room for one car in
each direction it is the primary artery that connects north to south. Knowing this we
approached the ride to Danang cautiously, fearing a day of being run off the road by
careening busses and trucks. What we found were slow careful drivers accustomed to
multiple modes of transport sharing the road. There were, of course, some butthead (does
one have to capitalize this since the character appeared in the popular cartoon?) drivers
who passed too closely or sped through villages too quickly. Many of these came in the
form of big ol shiny tourist busses and minivans stuffed with European and American
urchins on summer holiday.

Sharing the roadway with the brand spanking new tourist busses were trucks of all
sorts, carts, pedestrians carting all varieties of loads, and us brats. The most
surprising companions on the road were the public busses. Renault constructed most of them
in the first half of this century. By the looks of them Id guess that they were from
the early 1940s. Painted in bright colors and heavily loaded with bikes and all
sorts of goods roped on top and stuffed with people inside they traveled at nearly the
same speed as we did. There are two annoyances that make riding in Vietnam a challenge.
The first is the Vietnamese love of horns. It seems that from the moment they start any
motorized vehicle their hand moves to the button that activates this warning device and
punches out a little staccato tune that doesnt cease until they leave the vehicle.
This can sound charming if you are well above a city street looking down at the passing
motor vehicles below but can be deafening if you are riding your bike and a convoy of dump
trucks pass. Once you get used to it the annoyance is on the scale of a fly, albeit a fly
with an airhorn.

The second annoyance is encountered less frequently. I experienced it only twice en
route to Danang. It is a little complicated to explain the wheres and whys of
it so be patient. Many of the trucks and busses are aging to the point of decay and if
youve ever owned an older car or truck you may remember that they tend to overheat.
In Vietnam this is even more grave a problem given the heat and humidity. To battle the
problem most decrepit vehicles sport an auxiliary water tank on their roof. Erase the
image of that little plastic bottle that sits under the hood of your modern beast that
contains a gallon or so and think 55-gallon drum or a childs swimming pool mounted
on the roof. The driver controls the flow of this cool water into the engine via a spigot
in the cab. Even though most of these trucks and busses have leaks in their cooling system
the extra water still must pass somewhere. Here is where it becomes an annoyance. The very
rusty warm water sprays out the (usually) drivers side front bumper into the center
of the road, onto passing cars or onto the BikeBrats knees as the truck passes
another vehicle into the oncoming cyclists.

The landscape was strikingly beautiful. Vast coastal plains abutted steep mountains.
Rice paddy covered the flat bits and villagers tended the crops with great diligence. It
had not been since Indonesia that Id seen such agricultural industry. In fact I
commented to Andrew that the scenery and activity was "Java-like" as we pedaled
along. Another commonality with Indonesias most populated island is how much
activity occurs roadside. Not a moment goes by that you are completely alone. Still the
motorized traffic is so limited it is not uncommon to see someone sitting or even sleeping
on the roadbed.

A headwind buffeted us as we traveled south but the road was flat for the best part of
the ride. Unfortunately there were three rather challenging passes to ascend where the
coastal mountains come close to the sea. The first came early in the morning and was
little more than a hill, providing a little relief from the monotony of riding flat
coastal plains. The second was just a little larger and left us drenched in sweat for the
day had grown warmer. The last rise was a mammoth 560 meters over six kilometers. Far from
the largest hill wed ever climbed, it still represented a significant challenge
because our climb began at 11:15 a.m. We huffed, puffed and perspired our way up. At one
point a truck struggled to pass me and as it did I reached up and grabbed its tailgate and
had some help for half a kilometer of the route up before letting go guiltily.

At the last hairpin on the way up a truck careened around the corner, avoiding another
that had tipped over on the way up. The driver of the overturned truck grimaced as I shot
a photo of his misfortune. His hulking blue Russian truck hissed and broken glass tinkled
as it fell from the windowsills onto the highway. Just another 500 meters of road and
wed reached the pass. At the top huge bunkers sat as testimony to the conflict that
rocked this part of Vietnam. Yet another army attacked us as we crested. A legion of
children selling this and that tugged at our sleeves for our attention. They tried to sell
us everything from cold drinks to Zippo lighters, communist pins and other war
memorabilia. Andy broke down and bought a cold water for three times what we should have
paid while I held out until I halved the price (only paying 50% more than I should have
and feeling vastly superior).

We escaped the commercial kids and began whizzing down the other side, essing down the
hill and constrained only by the speed of the other traffic. One of the vehicles we
encountered was a one-speed bicycle with a huge load of bananas precariously balanced on
back. The man riding it was smoking a cigarette and straining to keep his bike from
tumbling down the hill. He had no coaster or cantilever brakes so hed attached a
board to one pedal. Forcing the rubber-footed board to the ground with his shoe he slowed
the bike until the load broke loose and slumped to one side. We were passing just then and
stopped to help him balance his load. He seemed more intent on keeping his cigarette lit
than fixing his bike.

It wasnt long after speeding down the pass that we started into suburban Danang.
More and more activity crowded the road and traffic increased commensurately. More and
more bicycles appeared, many carrying odd loads. At one point our paths crossed a cyclist
who was hauling two massive truck tires on his bike. He seemed to have had too much to
drink, wobbling down the street. The tires were balanced around his body resting on his
handlebars and back over his luggage rack. His body was threaded through their center and
his head and shoulders barely peeked through the tires.

We stopped now and then to check out city life in Vietnam or to look at our map. Each
time we did so we found friendly Danangers waving and saying "hello". Many
adults brought their children to the street to look at us. Some waved and screamed with
glee while others ran crying back to their houses. Danang was bigger, cleaner and more
interesting than Id anticipated. I was anticipating a chokingly large city, ugly,
overcrowded --in short, a nightmare to navigate. We found just the opposite. Though there
are more than a million folks in this city it was very civilized. One of the more civil
aspects is a little restaurant on the riverfront called Christies. Run now by an
Australian named Mark Procter it serves a great mixture of European, Australian and Asian
specialties. We made our (disgustingly sweaty) selves at home there and nearly moved in.
Mark was amazingly accommodating and helpful. Interrupting his business lunch he stopped
over at our table to greet us and give us advice about our stay in Danang. Mark, also a
cyclist, pointed out proudly the photograph on the wall of him with Greg Lemonde. They
rode together when Greg was leading a group of American Vietnam vets on a ride from south
to north.

After a very satisfying and copious lunch we followed Marks advice and took the
ferry across the river to the beach. Andy and I were both shocked at how empty the beach
was. Here was a strip of sand several miles long with a big blue expanse of clean water on
a sunny day without a soul on it. Upon checking into our hotel and cleaning up we decided
to have a look at the aforementioned mystery. By then the sun was beginning to set and the
beach was now swarming with people. 15-50 year-olds kicking around soccer balls, hitting
shuttlecocks or bouncing volleyballs overran every inch of the shore. We were made all
sorts of propositions as we walked conspicuously down the beach. Shuffling through the
sand we were offered glasses of what looked to be deadly pure rice alcohol, invited to
kick soccer balls, hit badminton shuttlecocks and eat picnics. A skinny unhealthy
druggy-eyed tattooed boy made improper advances in the guise of inviting us for a swim. We
shrugged off all of these offers in order to get a good survey of what was going on.

So satisfied with the luncheon meal at Christies we were back again for dinner
after our foray into Vietnam shoreside life. We were disappointed not to find Mark in
attendance. Didnt he live and work there? We asked the staff about him and found
that he would be calling in. We asked him if we could connect Connie (our computer) to his
phone line and update our site. He agreed and helped us post our writings and photos of
Laos the next day.

While we were hanging out at Christies the next day we met up with another
cyclist. Id actually met him in Hue the day before briefly. Dan was riding home to
the UK from Shanghai (via Singapore, Australia and Alaska) and qualifies as the craziest
cyclist weve met to date. He hadnt yet discovered sunscreen and was sporting
some pretty serious lesions on his arms and face from this oversight. He told us he was
riding a full-suspension mountain bike and liked to sprint for twenty kilometers at a time
before resting and going at it again. Hed recently begun to ride at night to avoid
the heat and had ridden the same pass as we had the day before in the dark without a
light. We tried not to berate him for his foolishness and only gave him some polite advice
about riding.

Wed really grown to like Mark, his restaurant and his hospitality. I dreaded
leaving the comfort of our adopted home in Danang. Before heading off to Hoi Ahn we found
out that Mark would be heading up to Hanoi in a few days for business and we made
arrangements to rendezvous there later in the week.

Before departing we went in search of train tickets for our trip north to meet Wendy in
Hanoi. Wed forgotten the map and were wandering aimlessly when we met our unlikely
guide Duc (pronounced sort of like Dick). Hed lived just outside of Paris for ten
years and addressed me in French as he rode by on his one-speed. After just a few cranks I
knew the abridged version of his life story and he was guiding us to the train station. He
was our age but looked a bit older. Apparently he hadnt had the advantage of western
dentistry, medicine and cosmetics. He invited us for coffee after the train station and
told us more about his life as a tailor. Somehow the conversation kept circling back to
his interest in Swiss army knives and his want for one. When he came by for dinner later
that night again the conversation returned to pocketknives. Andy took the hint and gave
him one of ours as a "gift". I couldnt help wondering if the next person
would be asking about a TV or washing machine.

Whatever the cost in chattels, our evening with Duc was well worth it. Not for the
conversation or the company (he brought along a friend who worked as a mechanic for a
Japanese concern in Danang). Duc did bring us to a beach side restaurant to enjoy some
Vietnamese seafood. The foodstall on the beach was just about to close when we arrived but
the waiters gladly seated us and served us some tasty shrimp, cuttlefish and sea bass
while Duc and his friend looked on. Theyd both said theyd eaten and
werent hungry but their eyes betrayed them. We finally coaxed them into eating
something along with the beer. We were simply happy to have someone help us get through a
challenging Vietnamese menu successfully.

We retired early, though thered be no rush to leave the next day. Our ride was to
be but 30k. Thus we could afford the luxury of a late departure. "The Guide"
(Lonely Planet) dismisses Danang as a place without interest save the Cham museum. Sadly
thousands of tourists are biased by their insufficient appraisal of the town wed
become rather fond of.

12 July, Danang to Hoi An, 29km (a)

With
our days destination only thirty kilometers away, I was afforded the unusual
Brat-treat of a morning stroll. At five forty-five, the beach was in full swing, teeming
with Vietnamese of all ages, all engaged in some sort of frenzied activity. Do these
people ever sleep?

On our way out of town, I was once again impressed by the seemingly indefatigable
vitality of the Vietnamese. The road to Hoi An which didnt even figure on our
mapswas jam-packed full of bikes, most of them hauling something or other. At one
point we were riding behind a couple of brightly festooned cyclists. Fred shouted out,
"Look, tribal people!" But in fact the pedaling pair proved to be traveling
brush- and broom salespeople.

Ugly concrete suburbia quickly melted into fields of newly planted rice and a world of
hallucinatory green. Even here, people were everywhere, busily engaged in the business of
growing more food. The misnamed "Marble Mountains" came next. Our excellent road
led right through these bumps on the landscape. A nearby village was abuzz and a-clink
with the efforts of marble carvers whose product line ranged from tombstones to gigantic
lions of dubious taste.

"Hoi An" announced a sign after less than an hour and a half of pedaling
(today can hardly qualify as a riding day). This ancient trading town beguiled us
immediately. While swarming with tourists Westerners and Vietnamese alikethe
place retains a feeling of authenticity. Many of its beautiful houses date from the
seventeenth century and are remarkably intact. We rolled past the colorful little river
harbor before being forced to get off and push through the throngs at the swarming market.
It didnt take us long to find a decent room with a view of the river and we were
cleaned up and exploring the town in the scorching heat in no time.

On our way back through the market (on foot this time) a small person accosted us,
urging us to come to his stall. In excellent English, he said his name was Bu, and I
couldnt help noticing how grabby (not to mention effeminate) he was. Only five
minutes in town and wed already found a sister. Fred was dead-set against following
our new friend, but I thought it might be amusing. With his remarkable powers of
persuasion, Bu coaxed me into ordering some silk boxers, and was especially thorough in
taking my measurements. He was very eager to fit Fred for a pair too, but Fred steadfastly
refused. Our new friend said the shorts would be ready later in the day, but we told him
wed pick them up the next day, since we planned to go to the beach that afternoon
(after two nights at My Khe, wed become addicted to the Vietnamese beach scene).
When Bu heard this, his eyes lit up. "What time will you be there? What side of the
beach are you going to? Ill bring a friend and we can all go swimming
together."

Sure enough, when we showed up at the beach (an hour earlier than wed told him,
in order to do yoga), Bu was there. He and his bitchy friend followed us up to a shaded,
relatively peaceful sand dune and watched us sweat as we did yoga for an hour. It was a
little disconcerting, especially with their impatience growing visibly by the minute. By
the time we had finished and I was ready for a swim, all of Bus energy was focused
on placating his friend. I think he might have promised his friend more than he could
deliver, and now the friend was pouting that Fred wasnt paying more attention to
him. Bu ended up having to shuttle the friend home to avoid his throwing a giant hissy
fit, but not before promising to bring us back to the beach to watch the full moon.

We had dinner in a beautiful place run by a friendly Frenchman. The food, drinks and
service were all excellent. The owner, Christophe, invited us to come back later to watch
the World Cup final, but we both doubted wed still be awake at two a.m.

The slow-paced dinner had made us late for our rendezvous with Bu, but our miniature
friend was faithfully waiting for us on his motorbike when we got back. Fred, pleading
fatigue, elected to forego the nighttime beach scene which turned out to be
disappointing. I had expected there to be bonfires and revelry, but in reality the beach
was practically empty. And hot. The wind had died and the temperature had risen, causing
me to sweat from the mere effort of drinking a beer by the seaside. Adding to the
disappointment was the fact that the moon never rose; the clouds obscured it totally.
Redeeming the whole experience, however, was Bus fascinating life story. I found him
to be refreshingly straightforward and articulate. He told me how he came from a large,
poor family and that his mother died last year. His father is a cyclo driver and Bu
himself had to earn his own living from a very young age. "When I was little I was
selling the lottery tickets, and then later, when the tourists coming five, six
years agoI sold postcards. I hated it." Then he met up with an older Vietnamese
homo (the details were fuzzy here) who lives in Saigon. Bu moved to Saigon and studied
English for awhile before coming back to his hometown and running a tailor shop for his
friend. Now he supports both himself and his younger brother, whose schooling he pays for,
and dreams of moving back to Saigon. "This is no place to be gay," he said,
"but in Saigon there are many places, many gay people. What I really want is a
boyfriend, a Vietnamese boyfriend. I like the foreigners, but not for a boyfriend."
When I asked Bu if his family knew he was queer, he told me they did, but he preferred not
to talk about it with them.

"Do you find it difficult being gay in a small town like Hoi An?" I continued
my interview. With a decidedly defiant tone in his voice, Bu declaimed, "I dont
really care what people think about me; No one can tell me what kind of person to
be." Coming from a four-foot tall, twenty-one year old Asian boy living in a
communist country, this remark really impressed me.